


It Doesn’t End Here

by dragonspell



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Daddy Kink, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Smoke Monster Reaper, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 05:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11639520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: “You forget where we are?” Jack demands, hating how his voice goes breathy at the end when Reaper strokes him again.  God help him, but it feels good.  He’s getting hard and there’s little that he can do to stop it.“Are you afraid that someone’s going to see?” Reaper taunts.  “See Soldier 76 down on his knees and begging?  Would that ruin your precious image, Cariño?”“Hardly,” Jack mutters though he’s not sure which part of that he’s answering.  His entire being is focused on the press of Reaper on top of him, around him, under him.Inhim.  A tip of a tendril pushes against his asshole, cold and persistent, and Jack forgets how to breathe for a few desperate heartbeats.(Or Jack gets caught on the battlefield and Reaper's got smoke tentacles.  And a kink for being called 'Daddy'.  Please mind the tags.  Jack says no and Reaper keeps going.)





	It Doesn’t End Here

_Get up. It doesn’t end here._

Rough black pavement grabs at the skin of Jack’s hand, breaking the surface to leave a red smear across the asphalt. His left glove is gone, already sacrificed to spare him damage, and there’s little to serve as a barrier between him and the ground. Ahead of him, the pulse rifle clatters across the street to slam into the broken ruin of a wall and Jack winces, potential harm to the gun always more painful than anything done to his body. His body protests, aches and wounds that throb and bleed crying out for attention as he forces himself to his knees and tries to get his feet underneath of him again. He has to keep moving. He can’t stop. If he stops, he’s dead. The visor fritzes, leaving him momentarily in the dark and a shot of fear pulses through Jack’s insides. The world returns, coated in red, and he swallows back the doubt trying to spill like bile from his throat. He’s gotta _move_.

_Get on your feet, soldier!_

He pushes off against the ground, throwing himself forward before something wraps around his right ankle and sends him crashing back to the ground. His jaw cracks against the hard pavement, pain shooting down his neck and spine, but he pushes it to the side and rolls to see what has snagged him. His eyes widen.

A plume of smoke curls around his ankle, holding him fast in a way that should be impossible. He kicks at it but feels no give. Jack’s lip curls as the realization of what—or rather _who_ —has him hits. “Reaper,” he snarls and the smoke starts to laugh. It thickens as it slithers up his body, wrapping more firmly around him, and he’s about to be smothered. Jack turns back around and digs in against the ground for better leverage, stretching forward and straining to reach across the few inches remaining between him and the closest edge of the pulse rifle. 

“Now, Jack,” Reaper taunts. “You know that’s not going to get you very far.” The smoke divides, snaking an inky tendril around his wrist. Jack growls as his arm is yanked back down to his side and anchored to the street. He pulls, fighting against the hold though he suspects it’s more likely his arm will rip off than he’ll get free. 

Getting his legs back under him again, he pushes himself to his knees, ignoring how the pavement digs in against his bare skin. The extra height affords him another inch and he snaps his left hand upward, catching the handle of the rifle with his bleeding fingertips. 

His grip slips and the gun clatters farther away as Reaper bats it to the side. Jack growls in frustration and the smoke laughs again before flipping him over onto his back, moving him around like a child’s toy. “Pretty spry for an old man,” Reaper says, his form coalescing into a more human shape. A black hood forms around Reaper’s white mask and the smoky tendrils attached to Jack’s leg and wrist taking on the vague form of hands. Tendrils of smoke bleed upward, rising from Reaper’s body.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees and kicks the man right between the eyes of his mask. _Fucker_. Jack’s been wanting to do that for awhile now.

Reaper wheels backward with a snarl and Jack’s got two seconds of freedom before he’s caught again. He tries to lash out but connects with nothing but smoke, his foot disappearing in a swirl of black. The smoke solidifies around him, snaring all of his limbs this time, and he’s thrown back to the ground. Jack shakes off the ache and makes another bid to get free. He’s picked up and slammed down harder, the air rushing out of his lungs on impact. Jack wheezes and his visor flickers and dies, leaving him in the dark.

 _Fuck_. Without the visor, Jack’s even more screwed than before. Most of the time, Jack’s not overly bothered by the loss of his sight, but he’ll admit that on the battlefield, it _really fucking sucks_.

“Bad boy, Jack.” Weight settles on top of him, sliding over his back and Jack thrashes to the side, trying to dislodge it, using the distraction to shove away the instinctive panic building inside of him. “You shouldn’t make this so difficult.” A tendril of smoke wraps around his throat, squeezing just enough to make its threat known. Jack rocks forward and the hold on his neck tightens until he chokes. He gasps involuntarily, instincts fighting for air that won’t come, and feels the edges of consciousness fading away. The smoky tendril loosens itself and a cough racks his body as air floods back into his lungs.

As if Reaper’s playing, the tendril constricts once more after Jack’s had a moment to breathe and Jack’s done. “Do it,” he rasps with the little air he’s been allowed. This dance of his and Gabe’s has been going on for far too long. He doesn’t long for death but he’d like for this to be over, this thing between him and whatever Gabe has become. “ _Do it, Gabe._ ”

“That’s a dead man’s name,” Reaper whispers. The tendril around Jack’s throat tightens momentarily then slackens, unwinding from his neck to slide up to his mask, edging along a crack at the bottom.

Jack barks out a laugh. “We’re both dead men, Gabriel. Remember?” They’ve got graves with actual headstones.

There’s a rustle of fabric as Reaper morphs back into his more solid form, the smoky bulk shifting into something more compact and familiar along Jack’s back while talons scrape under Jack’s jacket. Jack’s mask snaps, pieces falling away from his face to clatter onto the ground as tendrils reach up to touch Jack’s bare skin. He feels them slither along his cheeks, his nose, his lips, find the grooves of his scars and follow them across from end to end. “You feel pretty alive to me, Cariño.” The familiar nickname drops to the bottom of Jack’s stomach and stays there, settling like lead.

Jack feels Reaper’s talons shift higher under the sleeves of his jacket, farther than they should be able to reach. “Do I.”

“You feel…warm.” Something slithers into Jack’s pants through the tears in the fabric, oozing along his skin. Jack shivers, unable to control the reaction, and strains against Reaper’s hold again. It feels as if dozens of cool fingertips are trailing along his skin and Jack has to battle down revulsion and guilt and something else entirely.

The tendrils thicken inside his pants, ripping them further, and slip around his thighs, inching up to explore the line of his underwear. Jack jerks forward. “Stop fucking around,” he growls.

“We’re not fucking yet, Jack.” Reaper’s whatever the hell it is—fucking _appendage_ —pushes upwards to rub against Jack’s crotch, somehow sliding between him and the ground and lifting his hips a few inches. It feels like a hand moving over Jack’s dick—like _Gabe’s_ hand—only Jack knows that both of Reaper’s hands are wrapped around Jack’s arms, sharp, impractical claws digging into his skin.

“You forget where we are?” Jack demands, hating how his voice goes breathy at the end when Reaper strokes him again. God help him, but it feels good. He’s getting hard and there’s little that he can do to stop it. 

“Are you afraid that someone’s going to see?” Reaper taunts. He slips under Jack’s boxers, slithering over his balls and into the crack of his ass. Jack bites his lip to choke off the groan before it has a chance to escape. “See Soldier 76 down on his knees and begging? Would that ruin your precious image, Cariño?”

“Hardly,” Jack mutters though he’s not sure which part of that he’s answering. His entire being is focused on the press of Reaper on top of him, around him, under him. _In_ him. A tip of a tendril pushes against his asshole, cold and persistent, and Jack forgets how to breathe for a few desperate heartbeats. It slithers inside with little resistance, twisting and squirming against him, stretching him in a way that makes him start to shake.

Jack wants it. God help him but he wants it, here in this dirty, godforsaken street with this wretched, twisted monster living in the shell of his former lover. It’s been too long and no matter what the man’s turned into, no matter what he says, Jack’s body knows that it’s Gabe that’s behind him. Jack can’t help but want it. And that’s why he snarls, “ _Stop it._ ”

The barked order makes Reaper pause. “Are you telling me no, Jack?” he asks. 

“Get off of me,” Jack orders, throwing all of the gruff authority he can muster into it.

“I can’t recall you ever telling me no,” Reaper muses. “You always said yes, no matter what it was.” Jack remembers. Anything that Gabriel wanted—blowjobs in the office, a quick grind in a corner—Jack always said yes. And so did Gabriel. A flash of Gabriel flat against the bed in Jack’s old room, red ropes pressing against his dark skin, each breath shuddering out of him like a passing freight train, screams through Jack’s mind.

Jack’s breath stutters as the tendril in his ass shoves in deeper, winding and twisting through his insides. Above him, he feels a shifting, the bulk of Reaper’s weight sliding down to his legs though his arms are still held fast. The thing inside of him writhes, skimming his inner walls before it curls against his prostate. _God._ Jack feels his eyes flutter as pleasure stabs into him, driving in deep and sharp like a blade sinking into his gut. His body curls against his wishes, legs spreading, and Reaper laughs. “Did you like that, Cariño?” The length inside of Jack swipes across his prostate again and Jack can’t contain the groan that rips out of his throat. “I can do all sorts of things with my tongue now.”

Jack pants. Just the feeling of having something inside of him has got him losing his mind—the way it moves, the way it fills him. It’s been _years_. And, Christ, yeah, okay, in the privacy of his own mind, he’ll own up to the thing for tentacles—he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than say it out loud but he knows. His breathing starts to squeak at the end, each desperate gasp degenerating into a whine and he grabs for a hint of sanity, a shred of dignity, _anything_. “That’s not your _tongue_ ,” he hisses. He tries to hold onto a wisp of anger and feels it disintegrate in the ocean of lust raging through him. He drops his head against the ground and tries to remember who and where he is.

“It could be. How would you know?” And there’s a thought. The man turns into a cloud of smoke. There’s no telling what body part is where. For all Jack knows, it could be Reaper’s tongue. Or his finger, his dick, his goddamned _eye_. Reaper presses in closer and it feels like skin touching Jack, not his ever-present smoke, not his cold mask, but skin. Jack chokes back a gasp but can’t stop himself from wiggling backward, his body pleading for more despite what his mind wishes.

Hands wrap around Jack’s hips and lift him upward, nearly tipping him on his head as Reaper pushes deeper inside. The undulating tendril expands, filling him up, and Jack kicks out his legs, looking for traction. The toes of his right foot hook on what feels to be an elbow while his left catches only air. His fingers claw at the ground, skin and glove grinding on pavement. He’s suspended, helpless.

The thing inside of him wiggles and moves, ruthlessly pressing against his prostate again and again until Jack feels like he’s about to come. His body is fritzing out, unable to handle the relentless surge of pleasure and he jerks helplessly each time Reaper brushes against him, like a puppet responding to every twitch of a finger. The world shrinks down to just Jack and the man inside of him, nothing else existing beyond an ever-pressing _need_. There is no past, no future, just the here and now.

“Fuck me,” Jack rasps. “God, Gabe, _fuck_ me.”

“What was that?” Reaper asks, the jackass, and Jack feels little shame in pulling out the big guns.

“Fuck me, _Daddy_ ,” he snarls.

A string of Spanish spills out of Reaper’s mouth and Jack’s lower end plummets back to the ground. Hands catch him before he reaches the pavement, setting him gently on the rough asphalt before a hard presence wraps around Jack from behind. Reaper mutters a few more lines—Jack recognizes the ‘joder’ and the ‘cariño’ and little else, the words too fast and too slurred—before the length of smoke inside of Jack retreats. Jack moans as it slides quickly over his rim and leaves him empty. 

“I’ll fuck you,” Reaper growls, switching back to English, and something new—hot instead of cold—slides into Jack. “I’ll take care of you.” Jack groans as he’s filled again, the thing inside of him moving slickly though he has no idea how. The bulk of Reaper’s body presses against him, little tendrils of smoke snaking along his skin as Reaper’s corporeal hands stay firmly attached to Jack’s hips. Jack is pulled backward as Reaper’s body thrusts forward. Jack grunts as Reaper glances his prostate again, grits his teeth when his balls slap against solid warmth behind him.

“Yes…” Jack rasps, his mouth running away without him.

“Say it again,” Reaper hisses, thrusting again. “Say it again, _Jack_.” His hips emphasize his words.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Jack repeats. “Fuck me. Christ, fuck me.”

“Yeah, Cariño,” Reaper purrs, his voice shifting closer to the Gabe that Jack remembers as his thrusts settle into a steady rhythm. Jack’s face presses against the hard pavement, each snap of Reaper’s hips shoving him forward. He braces himself with an arm and lifts his legs to lock around the solid length of Reaper’s thighs, hooking them together as best as he’s able.

Something else slides inside of Jack alongside Reaper’s cock, stretching Jack wider than before, and Jack swears as it starts to pulse. “Just a little something,” Reaper mutters. “Just a little…”

Jack reaches down between his legs, needing to come, feeling the desperation starting to shake him apart. He just needs a firm grip and he’ll be done. Just a _touch_.

Smoke wraps around Jack’s wrist and drags it up to his shoulder, pushing it against the unforgiving pavement. Jack snarls. “Goddamn it, Gabe. Give me my _hand_.” Jack’s hand stays firmly trapped but a tendril of heat wraps around the base of Jack’s cock, encircling it and moving upward like a steady grip. “Or do that. Fuck, just like that.”

“Got it,” Reaper says, sounding like he’s straining for calm and there’s a burst of static and a crunch of plastic to the left that makes Jack frown in confusion, but it takes a distant backseat to the feeling of Reaper, of Gabriel, inside of him, pushing him closer and closer to the edge, the slide of heat along his cock, the tight grip of fingers against his side. Jack’s body tightens before he’s ripped apart by the orgasm that screams through him. Pleasure surges through his body, sparking up and down his spine. He bites down on his arm, muffling his shout.

After the orgasm wrenches out of him, Jack’s muscles go slack, his body losing its will to fight, and he slumps against the ground. The pavement is hard but Jack can’t find it in himself to care. He feels like he’s floating. Behind him, Gabe huffs and puffs on his way to his own climax and a lazy smile crosses Jack’s lips. “Mmm, you’re doing good,” Jack murmurs like he’s done a hundred times before. A thousand times. Lost in a dreamy haze while Gabe fucks him into the nearest surface.

Gabe. Gabriel. In another life, Jack loved him. He still does.

Gabe gasps as he comes, his voice going thin and reedy like it always does when Gabe’s working his way through a particularly good orgasm, like it’s so intense he can barely breathe. It ends with a rumbling purr that Jack echoes out of habit.

Soft lips press against the back of Jack’s neck and his eyes flutter open like he might see Gabe’s smile. There’s only vague shapes looming in the darkness and he remembers that without the visor, he won’t ever see again. And he has no idea if Gabriel Reyes can smile anymore. 

The thing inside of him dissolves and slips away, like it was never really solid to begin with, Reaper evidently having trouble holding his corporeal form. The restraints holding Jack down slip away as well, the whole of Reaper retreating. “Fuck,” Reaper says, his voice slipping back into the inhuman rasp.

Jack pushes himself onto his knees, mentally cataloguing the various cuts and bruises and aches. “Yeah.” His knees ache, his right feeling like it’s been strained, and his left hand is one long throb of pain. His enhanced healing stings as it tries to combat the damage. He sits back and cracks his neck, feeling like he got fucked by a truck. “Pretty rough on an old man,” he mutters.

“Couldn’t take it?” Reaper has an edge to his tone, a bit of derision like he’s looking for a fault.

“Oh, I took it alright. That’s pretty obvious.” Jack huffs a laugh at his own bad joke and pushes himself to his feet, half-amazed when Reaper lets him do it. He wobbles as his legs threaten to give out then steadies himself and totters over to approximately where he thinks the gun landed, fingers fumbling over the rubble. 

“To the right,” Reaper tells him and Jack feels the rifle’s barrel and follows it down. He hoists it up. “Careful, Old Man,” Reaper warns. “Wouldn’t want you to shoot your foot off.”

“Right.” Jack strokes his hands over the gun, checking if over as best he can without his sight. It feels like it’s in one piece at least. There’s a small whoosh of air heading south and Jack recognizes it as a familiar sound on any battlefield he’s met Reaper on. “I take it we’re done here?” he says, calling after what he knows is Reaper’s retreating form.

“You might want to clean yourself up, Jack. You look like you got fucked by a tornado.”

“I got fucked by a cloud. That close enough?”

Reaper growls and doesn’t reply, heading off to slink back into the shadows. Jack steps forward and frowns when he hears plastic skittering across the pavement. He bends down and picks up a piece, recognizing it as a cracked piece of his mask and pockets it. He feels along for the rest, finding two more shards and a small, broken tube—an ear piece. It’s not his. Jack rolls it between his fingers and pockets it. 

Until next time, then.

He stands and starts to pick his way back towards where he thinks the team might be as he runs his fingers along the inside of his broken mask, looking to see if his com is still working.

**Author's Note:**

> I have never actually played this game. <_<
> 
> Edit: This pwp unintentionally bares some thematic similarities to [Jive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jive/pseuds/jive)'s [Between the Ribs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8660614). Apparently, it was so damn good, it infected my brain. It, like all of Jive's works, is amazing and definitely worth a read. Just don't blame me when you lose a few days trying to devour the rest of the listed works as well.


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